


On the Mend

by translunartea



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drabble, M/M, POV Second Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:23:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/translunartea/pseuds/translunartea
Summary: As it stands, you care for him, and your master sees this as he sees all things.





	On the Mend

When his helmet triggered for release too early you realized it too late. You made the mistake of turning with a shout buried deep in your throat and your hand outstretched, gloves stained with soot and blood, fingers bent violently. It was dramatic and sweeping and you chided yourself later — making a scene is your forte, yet only when the time calls for it.

When he fell you made the mistake of rushing to his side, the overexposure of light only just beginning to dissipate from the attack on Cia’s end, Zant’s face still crumpling and hissing with burns and scarring. His screams penetrated the space like a limb smashing through glass and for a second you fooled yourself into thinking you could hear such a sound; the crunch of shards, or the landing thereafter.

When he reached for your hand you made the mistake of grasping his fingers, unable to take your eyes off of his own, now sightless and damaged and practically — thoroughly — emblazoned in your brain. Your master was to the north and nowhere to be seen but _you_ were there, and you were all he had.

When you realized this, as you shielded his face as quickly as your muscles could muster, you made the mistake of accepting it, and all of this had you beginning to _care_. Even when your master blamed you — unfairly, unquestionably. Even when you are called a careless buffoon; when your pride takes a blow that feels harder than any punch you’ve ever received.

(— at least then, you’d get to crack a grin through the bloodflow.)

As it stands, you _care_ for him, and your master sees this as he sees all things. As if in return, you are placed in charge of Zant’s recovery. You change the bandages, apply the solution, soothe the stinging with aloe, calm any whimpering with rubs to the arms and back, careful not to trace his bright cyan markings too harshly. He glows brighter than any sun and yet is submerged in dark; he is forged from twilight, and not _for_ light, and he knows — he knows.

When he sleeps, you are by his side, and you care for him, but feel jilted out of any chance to work closely with your master again. The slow scald of shame and atonement creeps through your body and you grit your teeth against the hiss of it, seeping deep in your iron-hot blood.

* * *

_Do you know what I miss?_ he asks, the time well past midnight, the birds hidden deep in the hilltop trees facing southwestern territory. You tell him _no_ , and do not want to hear the answer.

_The stars_ , he tells you, voice just barely above a dulcet murmur. _They are beautiful after a rainfall._

He lays in bed, though you are sure he does not sleep.

It’s fine. Neither do you.

* * *

“How is our companion?”

Your master’s tone is light and cordial, yet you feel the force behind it; the urge to keep it even. It unsettles you and you sit precariously in the cedarwood chair facing his desk. The rug beneath your feet resembles the fur of an old boar.

“Recovering,” you manage, tapping one finger lightly on your shaking knee. Ganondorf’s quill scritches on his maps and journals, ink staining his hands. His hair is mussed, the color a soft shade of red in the candlelight of his tent. It is darker than Zant’s, but you are reminded of Zant all the same.

“I suppose you’re feeling resentful towards me,” your master goes on, “though I imagine you know how ridiculous that is.”

“Is it?” you snap, unable to control yourself. The words escape you faster than blades flung from a Sheikah’s wrapped hands. “It was not my fault he was attacked.”

“It was your fault that he was bogged down by enemies,” Ganondorf hisses, eyes locking onto yours, the yellow bright and almost sickly. “I told you to get him away from the southern gate, and you did not listen. You tarried with the Gorons and this is the result.”

“Master, I did not _tarry_ —”

“Enough. You’ll care for him until he is well again, and in the meantime you’ll learn from this.”

He does not outright announce it, but you understand when you have been dismissed. His eyes are tired and worn, and they fade almost immediately as he goes back to poring over his documents, shoulders slumping. You gaze at him momentarily, wondering if he would grant you a simple touch to the cheek. 

“Do I still have your trust?” you inquire instead.

He does not answer right away. The waiting is almost enough to make you nervous.

“Yours and his,” he finally murmurs, “above anyone else.”

Your chest expands; the burn of relief is welcome, if only temporary.

* * *

Before breakfast, Zant is sitting up, gazing at his hands. His bandages have been peeled off and rest in a pile beside his hip, exposed underneath the sheets.

“Blobs,” he announces.

Your eyes cross for a second, vision bleary. Sleep clings to your bones, proving difficult to shake off. “What?”

“My hands,” he says. “They’re blobs.” He looks up at you, and cracks a grin for the first time in days. “You’re a blob, too. Very wobbly.”

You purse your lips at the absurdity. “I am not any sort of wobbly,” you mutter, sullen. He lets out a tiny giggle, carefree and light.

Only when he is not looking do you smile at the thought of it.

* * *

In the third week, he is beginning to move around, and you no longer need to bandage him as often. His eyes are still a milky shade of yellow but the objects around him are beginning to take shape again, and he sees your bemused face one morning as he practices flexibility exercises, calling his stance _bakasana_ and inviting you to join.

You opt to sit on the bed and observe, Zant’s arms planted firmly into the ground as they stretch to their utmost length, legs bent at the knees and folded in to touch his thin chest. His hair has grown considerably and you resist the temptation to run a single hand through it, with your fingers entangling in the red. The fantasy is enough, and you let him finish out the crane pose, his legs unfolding and feet touching the ground softly. He stands and wobbles and you stand to catch him.

_Don’t be clumsy_ , you scold half-heartedly. He is warm, and close, and you grip his arms for perhaps a moment longer than necessary.

That night he holds you to him, his chest on your back, long arms enveloping you. You watch his markings pulsate in the dark and find a comfort in the silent cadence of it. Soon, you are able to sleep, and it seems that so is he.

In the morning he is still there, wrapped safely around you. You haven’t the heart or will to move him off.

* * *

At the end of the fourth week, he disappears.

You stir awake to find the pallet empty beside you. It takes you a moment to blink and adjust, surroundings coming into focus. The scent of a dying fire snakes its way into your nostrils, the night’s wind easing in through the tent flaps.

Each step you take is light and silent, save for the occasional crunch of pebbles and dirt beneath your boots. When you reach the grass you pick up your speed and settle for a light jog uphill, chest hammering wildly. If he has disappeared for good, you don’t know what you’ll do with yourself. Fear and anger mingles in your stomach and burns your throat; you could not save him from the attack, and now he has disappeared under your watch — and the heavens help you if your master catches wind of this —

Yet there he sat atop the hill, small frame lit against the night, hair flowing freely in the wind. You stop short and ease yourself, sore from your own old battle wounds. He gazes upward and you walk to him, sitting by his side gently.

“I only wanted to see the stars,” he says quietly, his accent thick and lilting. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

“You did, briefly,” you admit. “But no longer.”

You look closer at Zant’s face — the color has mostly come back, the blisters mere spots and a few scabs remaining. Slight scars litter his cheeks and the wide, flat bridge of his narrow nose. Zant pays your attentiveness no mind; his eyes are fixed solely on the sky above, corneas reflecting the constellations and distant galaxies spread all around, sweeping the black of the universe.

You turn your attention away from Zant’s face to his hair, long and slightly more unruly than usual. This time you do not hesitate to reach out and touch it, having left your gloves behind. The texture meets the skin of your fingers with a softness that feels alien, yet familiar all the same. His scent is rich and pleasant, and it settles in you with a comforting feeling, as though you are home.

“You are glowing,” Zant remarks, and you come to realize he has been watching you.

“Am I?”

He nods. “I see you,” he says, smiling. It wavers, then fades. He looks to his hands, exposed to the wind; he hides them in his sleeves and shuts his eyes for a moment. “Yet I don’t see as well as I used to.” He begins to tremble. “That is my fault.”

An old part of you rears up and snaps back, ready to lunge with anger and resentment. In this moment, you quell it and sit up straight, lowering your hand from his hair to the back of his long neck. “It’s in the past,” you say quietly. “I should have been at your side sooner. The fault is — it’s mine, if anyone is to blame.”

“I don’t blame —”

“I know.” You draw closer and he rests his head on your shoulder, opening his eyes again. They are luminous and you and the world around are reflected in them. You’re not sure what else to say, and your lips are on his cheeks, whispering on the skin, _I know, I know, I know_.

A smile spreads on his lips. “The sky is so vast,” he whispers. “I missed it very much.”

The temptation is great to kiss him further, but his eyes are wide and searching the heavens and you are unwilling to deprive him of this. The streak of a meteor zips across the atmosphere, quick and full of light. You settle for holding him close and watching the stars with him, his heat radiating with yours, skin upon skin.


End file.
